


Birthday Treats

by DameMarchDolcetto (AlectoErinye)



Category: DragonFable (Video Games)
Genre: Crack, Food, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2020-10-21 20:10:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlectoErinye/pseuds/DameMarchDolcetto
Summary: The Hero can bake. It's not exactly something Tomix expected to see, not when it was her birthday. In which the Hero lets him taste test her cooking and his world changes because of it.





	Birthday Treats

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse the pollution. I'm migrating my stuff over from ff.net.
> 
> This was written while hungry in a cakeshop. Take that as a warning. Enjoy!

When he enters the portal to Sunbreeze Grove, it's with no little amount of trepidation.

He's not at all sure of what he's going to do here, honestly. He'd received an invitation, of course, but with the search for the Shell Key still nowhere near completion, he'd think he'd have his priorities straight, not after having spent a month working on the search with nary a sign of progress to be had.

Sure, the Hero was a good friend - easily one of his best, even if he's never said it, and it really has been a while since he's seen her, what with his work in decoding and her Orb-hunting. And, okay, maybe he has gotten a little used to having someone around, watching his back, and just generally being nice to be with. And, yes, maybe he does miss having someone to talk to and maybe he has been a bit lonely given that she was busy, he was busy, and Aspar was away. And yeah, maybe the thought of enjoying food that wasn't from the Ravenloss marketplace had seemed awfully tempting when he'd gotten the invitation. But still. Priorities.

... Okay. Maybe he's just here because he wants a break, some company, and some cake.

After all, it's been a long time since he'd been Aboveground, he's bored and tired, and a friend's birthday party seemed as good a distraction as any. The one last year had been a nice reprieve. Maybe this would be as well.

Though, admittedly, he doesn't remember much of last year's... although he does recall something about the food coming to life and the party ending with the Paladin Artix smashing an axe through the Hero's birthday cake.

The cake was pretty good, axe aside. It was a fluffy vanilla sponge cake iced over with chocolate, frosted with raspberry and filled with taffy. Really tasty. He had dreams about it for weeks. He'd made the piece he got to take home last him two weeks. He still misses it now, almost a year after he's eaten the last crumb.

He hopes Cysero's making the cake again. Eccentric as he was, he really did make tasty cake.

He wonders how long he can make this year's take-home slice last. Personally, he's hoping a month.

"Ah, Tomix!"

There she was, the Hero of Falconreach, looking quite a bit healthier than the last time he'd seen her - which only made sense given that she likely had not licked any glowing bananas this time around (mana restorative or not, he will likely never lick bananas found on the street). Her armor was, for once, without stains or scuffs, and her daggers were, for once, sheathed at her sides. Her smile was warm and welcoming as she regarded him.

And she was wearing an apron.

A pink, frilly apron with embroidered flowers and lacy frills.

Right over her usual rogue leathers.

And a hairnet.

It actually wasn't a bad look on her, all things considered.

"Hi," he says. "You're looking well. Happy birthday, Hero."

She beams. "Thanks! I'm glad you could make it. I wasn't sure you would. You're really early though. I still haven't finished the desserts - would you be okay with waiting for a bit?"

"You're making the desserts?" The question's out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Her smirk was lopsided. "There's a better chance my desserts won't come to life and attack people compared to Cysero. I'm a fair baker."

He looks at her inquisitively. "You bake?" She didn't seem the type.

"Here and there." She nods. "I'm not bad; I make the cakes for whenever Lady Celestia and I have tea. And I sometimes have lessons with the cooking witch back in Falconreach." She tilted her head towards the lakefront, where there were a number of tables and chairs set up and around there, all festooned with brightly colored balloons. There was no one around yet, however. "I have to get back to my cookies; you should go save yourself a spot. Or," she adds. "If you like, you can come with and I'll see if I can't spot you a cookie."

Out of a curious boredom more than anything (and most definitely not because he wanted cookies or cupcakes or anything like that), he follows after her.

He steps into a beautiful, sugary wonderland.

It was probably magic of some sort, the kitchen was much larger than was conceivably possible given how small the house seemed from the outside but that, though interesting enough, was nowhere near as magical as the solid wall of ovens that took up the far side of the room, all locked and loaded, bright and burning. A maze of countertops dominated the kitchen, almost all of them covered with trays and dishes filled with some sort of sweet, from trays of raspberry crisps to platters of caramel bars. Jars of jam and preserved fruits were scattered amongst their midst, almost jewel-like in the light of the sun. Pots were bubbling on the various stoves. The whole room was warm and fragrant with chocolate and baking bread, of butter and sugar and caramel bubbling on the counter.

It's all he can do to stop his jaw from dropping.

"Um, sorry if it's a bit hot. Lots of ovens, you know."

The Hero hadn't frozen right at the open doorway, as he had. She was now by one of the ovens, movements sharp and well-practiced. She now wore oven mitts that matched the trim of her armor. There's a tray in her hands.

Cookies. Chocolate chip.

But

Chocolate chip cookies should not smell that good.

"Looks like I can't give you any of the cookies yet, I'm afraid," she says briskly as she plops the tray down next to a literal row of similarly filled cookie trays. "Need to let 'em cool. But, tell you what, if you see anything you like, tell me, okay? I'll save a plateful just for you."

_Everything_, he almost says. _Save me a plate of everything. One plate of everything. Everything on a plate._

He says, instead, "I'll keep that in mind, thanks."

_Control_, he has to remember. _Control_.

But it's _hard_. There are cookies and chocolates and sweets and pastries and so much more than his feeble, sweet-deprived mind can handle.

And even—

And _cakes_. Plates upon plates of chocolate _cakes_, each as beautiful and warm as any cake could be.

It is a struggle not to salivate.

"That is... quite a lot of cake you have there," he manages.

"Hm? Oh, those? I'm making a layered, tier cake. It's all just going to be one really big cake. I am gonna have a lot of people over, after all."

The Hero's at a stove now, working with a bowl of some sort, back faced towards him. He's grateful for that. He has a reputation to uphold. He is most definitely not going to let one kitchen full of sweets ruin that for him.

There's chocolate bubbling on that stove though. He couldn't help noticing it. The smell is good. Very good. Very, very good.

He swallows. The rumbling of his stomach is drowned out by the bubbling of a hundred pots on stoves.

He's hungry.

He's just had breakfast and he is already hungry.

Control, he has to control himself, he doesn't want people to know that—

Well, it's not even a secret, not really, but it's not exactly something he wants advertised. It's just that he—

He...

He loves sweets. All of them. Hard candy, taffy, toffee, fruit drops, gumdrops, chocolates—it was all amazing, all of it. When he was a child, he used to get in trouble with his mother for breaking into the pantry and swiping jam jars and fruit crisps, sometimes even for conspiring with his siblings to steal from the big stash of candy their mother always kept on the top shelf. It ran in the family, a love of sweets. To this day, he's reasonably sure the fact he used to swipe sweets from Danyel's "secret" stash was one of the reasons why his brother hated him so much. The only reason he isn't spending half his income on sinnomen sticks and spellberry boomrocks is because decoding runes was expensive work and he barely ever has the time to weave as it were.

But if he did have the time and the money—

Dentists would shiver at the amount of candy he would stuff in his pockets. His large, large pockets.

"You know, I really am glad you came," she says conversationally. "I was worried you wouldn't make it."

"I didn't know my presence was in demand," he says distractedly, eyes now fixed on a cooling rack loaded with what looked like fruit tartlets, blueberries, strawberries, and sweetpalm fruits resting on beds of sunshine-colored pastry cream. Tarts weren't normally his favorite. But he was willing to reconsider.

"We are friends and it is my birthday," she points out. "And it's been so long since we last saw each other. I was starting to wonder if you'd decided to look for the next key without me."

"No, nothing of the sort," is his answer as he turns, attention now captured by yet another countertop, this one covered with bowls of molten chocolate, toppings, and fresh fruits, a whole assortment of pastry bags in pastel shades, and jars of jam in every color of the rainbow. He used to spend entire afternoons trying to swipe jam jars without his family noticing and, now, there was a veritable treasure trove of them right here. Next to bowls of chocolate. Next to bags and bags of frosting. He tries not to let his mouth water. "I just haven't had any luck so far. If I_–_ when I find the next location, you'll be the first to know."

"I'd hope!" she says, the words half-laughed.

"You won't have to; you will be," he reassures her, trying not to stare too intently at the jam jars, at the chocolate, at the pastries_–_ at anything other than the floor, really. The flour-powdered, chocolate-stained, icing-smeared—

Bad thoughts. Very, very bad thoughts.

"That's good to hear. I worry about you a lot, you know?"

"I don't know," he says absent-mindedly, attempting to fix his gaze at the window over her shoulder, where freedom, sunshine, and no temptation called out from beyond. "But tell me."

"We're friends, Tomix. I worry about all of my friends. Most of the people I'm friends with tend to be in danger a lot."

"I can take of myself," he points out, though without heat, as a pie, a beautiful, _beautiful_, pie set beneath the window he'd been trying to focus suddenly caught his attention. It tugged at his gaze most insistently. "I've been taking care of myself for years before we met."

"It's not that I don't know that, it's just_–_ I can't help it, I guess."

The pie must have been freshly baked, he suddenly notices. The crust was a perfect golden brown with just the right amount of flakiness. What flavor could it be? Blueberry? Strawberry? Spellberry?

"For what it's worth, I worry about you, as well."

Oh no. He was staring. Dangerous (delicious) territory. He needs to look away. But the pie is too beautiful. He cannot resist.

"Heh. For what it's worth, knowing that means a lot to me."

"We are friends," he echoes, trying not to stare too hard. _Friends give each other cake_, his treacherous mind whispered. _Friends share their food._

"That we are," she says and he can hear the smile in her voice. Then there's a clatter of tins and he turns to face her again; the effort it took to tear his gaze away from the pie was nothing less than supreme. The Hero was at one of the countertops now, a pot of what looked like chocolate cream at her side.

"As my friend, I hope you brought a present this time around," she says lightly, smile easy-going. She was assembling the cakes now, layers of chocolate cake sandwiching a caramel-colored buttercream icing. Three cakes now stood, two layers each. The cake was going to have three tiers. Three, beautiful tiers of a chocolate layer cake. All to be coated with chocolate ganache.

He fights the urge to shed a tear.

"I-I did," he says, tearing his eyes away from the (temptation) cake in order to toss the wrapped package onto the table in front of her. He hadn't had much time and with Aspar away, he had a dearth of soulthreads to work with. But he did his best. The scarf he'd made wasn't a bad one, not at all. It was actually very nice given the time constraints. It shimmers a little as he watches her tear the wrapping open. "I hope you like it."

She looked pleased enough. "Ooh, thanks," she cheered, pulling out the currently-gray fabric from the wrapping paper. "I've been meaning to find a new headscarf."

Wrapped around her hair, the fabric immediately turned a warm, sunny yellow. She must've been in a good mood. It was nice to know she was being genuine. He worried, sometimes, if that pleasantry of hers was an act (it was damned unusual, after all).

"You make it yourself?" she asks, giving the scarf a tug, floury hands leaving stains that immediately disappeared. Fabric that never stained was a practical gift for a Hero who kept getting into scrapes; he'd kept that in mind while making it.

He grunts.

"For this, my good friend, you are getting an extra-large slice," she says cheerfully.

_Want me to make you a cloak?_ was a question that nearly spilled from his mouth. _A dress? A ballgown? I'll weave for cake!_

"I'll look forward to it, Hero," is what he says instead and as he forcibly (_extremely_ forcibly) tears his gaze away from the cake. _Focus on something else,_ he thinks. _Anything_ else. He'd miss out on the important things if he kept getting distracted by sweets.

But.

But, away from the counter with the cakes, he can't help but spot yet another tray of cookies not too far from where he is, gleaming with frosting and dusted with powdered sugar.

They look fragrant, warm, and fresh. Some are round and are iced with swirling ferns and leaves in various shades of green. Others are shaped like moglin heads and have rock candy for eyes. And yet more are shaped like dragon's heads, with scales picked out in sugar glaze and eyes painted in jelly.

There are even little jammy thumbprint cookies, each shaped like little golden brown Dragon Amulets, the gems being gleaming dollops of jam colored as bright as jewels in shades of red, and orange, and deep, deep purple.

"You do know you can call me by name, right?"

"Of course," he says dazedly, distractedly, eyes fixed on the spread of cookies sitting temptingly within arm's reach. "Hero."

He hears her huff, irritated, but he really can't find it in himself to care when there, in front of him, was a gorgeous treasure trove of sweet, succulent confections sitting not a foot away from him. Within literal arm's reach.

He can't help it. He can't take it. Not any more. He reaches out for one and_–_

"Oh, don't touch them just yet," he hears her call out and he recoils as if struck. "The tarts need time to cool and I haven't finished icing those cookies."

"Alright," he hears himself say. His voice sounds dry and wobbly to his own ear. "Sorry."

"It's okay. They look good though, don't they?"

_Like heaven_, he doesn't say. "Yes," he does say. "They're nice."

"I'm almost done with the cake now, though that'll be for later. What do you think? Or is this too much?"

He looks to the cake (with great trepidation) and he swallows.

Now this was just unfair.

Sinnomen sticks. The cake. She was decorating it with draping curls of chocolate shavings and sinnomen sticks.

Three tiers of a heavy chocolate cake, with a rich chocolate ganache, decorated with swirls of caramel sauce, and pure chocolate shavings. And sinnomen sticks.

Unfair, he doesn't say. That's just unfair.

Now it wasn't just chocolate. It was nostalgia. He loved sinnomen sticks. He used to hoard them back when he was at Edelia. He'd gotten into his accident with the headmaster's spiritlooms because there was a box of sinnomen sticks at stake (he got to keep the sinnomen sticks)

And now

He's standing there

Right before a three-tier chocolate-and-caramel cake with sinnomen sticks.

In a room filled with cookies of every variety. (sweet, sugary, and delightful)

And tarts (sweet, delicious tarts)

It was like being surrounded by temptation.

With the cake being the most tempting of all.

"It looks nice," he manages to croak. _I want it_, he does not say.

"Haha. Good to know. Hey, would you mind taste-testing this for me?"

His world freezes.

The Hero was looking at him curiously. Jam stained her mouth. Flakes of pastry crust clung to her flour-powdered palms. And there, resting on her open hand, was—

A tart.

A single. Beautiful. Tart.

Perfect golden brown crusts. Berries, blueberry, strawberry, and sweetpalm, winking up at him from their beds of pastry cream.

"Sure thing," he says, mouth dry, trying his utmost best to sound casual as he plucks it out of her hands. It's warm and light and seems to glow in the afternoon sunshine. Eat me, it told him. Eat me.

He pops the whole of it into his mouth.

It's—

Avatars.

Elemental Lords of Lore.

It's—

The pastry practically melts into his tongue, falling apart in an explosion of featherlight flakes and pastry cream and a mix of berries that flood his mouth with flavor like he's never experienced before, delicious and sweet and flavorful but somehow never overwhelming, blueberry and strawberry and sweetpalm blending together with the cool touch of the pastry cream to make a flavor that was—

"How is it?" she asks, looking him over curiously.

"Good," he manages, mouth full of berries and pastry crumb, keeping himself from shuddering by sheer force of will. "Really good."

Beyond belief. Divine. Ambrosia.

The world is a beautiful place. He can see that now. Stars are erupting behind his eyelids. Birdsong fills his ears.

Tarts had never been a favorite before. He was a fool. He knows better now.

_This_ is heaven. The smell of tarts. The texture of them. The _taste_ of them.

"Glad to hear it," she says, smiling as she turned back to the cake, perhaps now with just a bit more of a flair to her cake decorating as she slashed more stripes of caramel sauce onto the cake. "It's my first time making those so I was actually kinda worried."

The more he chewed, the more flavorful it got, it was amazing, gods, it was amazing—

It transcended tastiness. It was transcendentally delicious.

"—so it's nice to see that you're enjoying it, anyway. You know, people usually act really weird after they eat my cooking," she comments off-handedly. "Don't get why. It's nice that you're not, you know, freaking out or anything."

If something this delicious truly existed in this world, the world was more hopeful than he could've ever imagined.

If he died right now, right this second, he would become a Soul-Ally of Hope, just because eating this tart has given him more hope than he could possibly fathom.

It is bittersweet when he finally swallows. So bitter. But, oh, so deliciously, wondrously, sweet.

There is moisture at the corners of his eyes. If asked, he would say it was from the smoke, the heat, that dominated the warm, fragrant kitchen.

"Oh, hey, Riadne's here! I wasn't sure if she'd make it either. Ah, here, take these out for her, would you? You can have some too, of course. I really should get started on glazing the petit fours and I won't be much for conversation then. If it's, you know, alright with you."

Miraculously, gloriously, wondrously, he is given a plate. With more of those tarts. And even (and this is more than he could've dreamed) a few cookies. A few jammy, a few frosted. A couple of those chocolate chip ones half-coated in melted chocolate.

He looks up at her (the great patissier) and has to blink back tears of joy. "Certainly," he says agreeably, somehow keeping the quaver from his voice, hands somehow not shaking under the weight of what would likely be edible glory. "Thank you. Happy birthday, Hero."

"Thanks," she says, grinning. The headscarf he'd given her is a soft, sunny yellow; sweet, simple joy. "Have fun. Oh, and save some room for later. I cooked the lunches, too. It's gonna be great. Tell me what you think of them all, alright?"

"I'll keep that in mind," he says (swears). "Good luck."

The last he thing hears as he goes to exit the kitchen is the half-laughed phrase 'I don't need it!'. He can see a flash of Riadne's distinctive red hair out the window as he steps out of the house and feel that familiar rush of warmth from inside his chest flare in response.

But more than that, he looks at plate of desserts (wonders) in his hands, feels a sudden, _desperate_ desire seize him from a level that far surpassed mere physical hunger, a level that went far, far beyond what could be called want and crams them all inside his mouth, one of each of the treats she'd given him (he would leave some for Riadne– he wants her to experience the same bliss, wants everyone to experience this same bliss), and bites and chews and—

He ascends

His soul sings

He is content

* * *

"Tomix? Tomix?!"

Upon hearing the commotion, the Hero poked her head out from the kitchen. The Soulweaver's eyes had glazed over and his expression was that of utmost awe. At his side, Riadne was bringing out salves and healing potions and her hands were glowing with what she assumed was some kind of spell. Tomix, however, was unresponsive.

She could only sigh.

"Man... people get so weird when they eat my cooking."

**Author's Note:**

> The day after the birthday party, twenty people went into food comas with smiles on their faces, seven people proposed undying love and marriage to 'whoever cooked this meal', and the Hero of Falconreach swore to never cook again. The End.
> 
> Funnily enough, when I wrote Ambrosia (which is kind of a predecessor for this), I did my best to write it without using pronouns (which had been an interesting challenge) but over the course of writing more stuff with a super-chef Hero, I kind of ended up developing a sort of backstory for my super-chef. I didn't write a name in this one so you can still feel free to think of the Hero here as any old female rogue Hero of Falconreach but, in my head, the Hero's named Hessie and she learned how to cook from her mother, who is a professional chef in the employ of a rich nobleman. Her food tastes normal to her.
> 
> Oh, and there was once a war over a peach cobbler. Her mother's much better than her, when it comes to cooking.
> 
> In any case, all feedback's appreciated and have a good day.


End file.
